What's Really Inside
by Mikauzoran
Summary: She told me to write about it. It was therapeutic to put my experiences into words. It helped me process and overcome what had happened. She told me to share it. I was terrified. The feelings in my story were so personal, private. It was like baring my soul. But that was how I healed. And how I really met Kuroba.
1. Searching

Mikau: Hello! Thanks so much for taking a look at this! This one really speaks for itself, so I really don't have much to say about it. Other than…poet I am not, so just pretend that the poems I wrote as Kaito are deep and meaningful. ^.^; Thanks for your suspension of disbelief. Anyway, I think, as writers, this is a story that we can all identify with at least on some level. I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, I'd spend more time on the minor characters. I know Sensei's busy and he's got his hands full, but… I think they each deserve more attention and fleshing out. If they could each have their own exposition chapter, that would be cool.

…

Chapter One: Searching

I had come back to Japan searching for something. I wasn't quite sure what exactly, but I knew for certain that my life was lacking a basic element, something akin to air in terms of necessity to a human being.

The Kaitou Kid was, at the same time, like that last gasp of air a drowning man takes before he goes under and a sucker punch in the gut, knocking all the air out of you. He simultaneously lifted me out of my haze of boredom and depression while also managing to take me down a few pegs, sweeping my feet out from under me and putting me in my place.

He helped me overcome my pride by outwitting and publicly humiliating me. He gave my life a new purpose by confounding me, making me struggle, and actually challenging me. It had been so long since I had found an excuse to use, really use, the lump of grey matter between my ears. When everything had become so routine, he pulled me out of my rut. I had been tired and jaded and almost lifeless before, but he lit the fire in me again. He made me want to try and keep trying, even when that meant I got covered in tar and feathers and slime and neon paint and sparkles, confetti, and goo.

While there was no denying that Kid saved me from the isolated prison my life had become, I believe that he also inadvertently messed me up far worse than I had been before.

My therapist said that I was simply changing, learning to open up and care about others, put myself out there, put my feelings on the line. She said that the anxiety I was feeling, the self-doubt, was fear of change, fear of getting hurt, being rejected.

I wasn't so sure about all of that, but…all I knew was that I felt sick. There was a tightness in my chest like a housewife wringing the water out of a towel with a vengeance. I found myself short of breath. I suffered from heart palpitations and sweaty, clammy palms.

"I'm just not myself," I explained during one session, even though at that point I wasn't quite sure who "I" was. What I was _supposed_ to be acting like.

"Have you ever tried writing about it?" she responded.

This puzzled me.

Writing? Writing about it? As in creative fiction? Or was she insinuating that I should keep a record, such as a diary, of my thoughts and feelings? I wasn't too keen on chronicling my experiences, and I told her so.

"No." She smiled and laughed as she reassured me. "I meant that you should try writing a story. A lot of people find it relaxing and therapeutic."

I reluctantly agreed to try.

At first, a lot of the time I spent staring at a blank screen. That painfully white word document gazed intently back at me like a fierce opponent in a chess match. It was my move. The clock was running down, and my nemesis was looking at me with eyes as dark and unfeeling as slate. It was mocking me, analyzing me.

The first week produced no fruit, but I tried again the following week, staring at the empty page as it laughed at me with its potential: "I could be the next great literary work. I could become the next Shakespeare, but _you_ don't have the skill to accomplish it. I've got the _potential_; you don't."

I stared at the void as it taunted me.

And then I typed out a few words. Eventually, the words worked themselves into a sentence. It was almost like watching a lame boy hobble down the sidewalk, but after that, more letters joined together to form additional phrases. The punctuation fell into place after a while, and I was soon looking at a fledgling paragraph. The paragraphs gradually multiplied, and it was a bit like watching a plant grow. You could see it getting a little bigger day by day, but it took a dreadfully, almost insufferably long time to actually become anything of note.

Once finished with my little thousand word piece, I read over it and sighed. It was awful with very few redeeming qualities.

Regardless, I took it to my therapist and let her psycho-analyze it…me.

She read it with a straight face, intense lines of concentration forming little trenches in her forehead. She nodded as she read, but it was the nod of a doctor finally comprehending what was wrong with their patient. It wasn't a good nod. It was a nod of diagnosis, prognosis.

"It's rubbish." I cut her off before she could say anything. If I insulted it first, her criticism of my painstaking efforts wouldn't hurt as much. Two weeks of my life wasted wrestling with characters and word choice. "It's absolute rubbish."

"I wouldn't say that," she replied gently, always in that supportive tone of voice. She sounded like an air-headed cheerleader, always trying to encourage and cheer her patients on. "Unpolished maybe, but it's not bad. You have potential, and I think I understand you a little better now, Saguru-kun. Keep writing."

And so I did.

It came a little easier with practice. Week three was much more manageable than weeks one and two.

My character was a detective, struggling to catch a criminal mastermind while working on a variety of cases that all seemed to be separate at first but ended up being linked.

Initially, "Jon" lacked personality. My protagonist was rather cookie-cutter. He was based on Holmes, but…he was a tad dry and mundane. It wasn't until week four that I started experimenting, thinking up a backstory for him and then sewing it all in between the scenes dealing with the various crimes.

Week six brought in the police force. At the onset, they were incompetent, the inspector in particular, but my shrink and I had a long conversation about how even though the police weren't as smart as my detective Jon, that didn't necessarily make them stupid.

Week seven was spent thinking about the police and their own backstories. I had some rather meaningful conversations with the Kid Taskforce that week, trying to understand where they were coming from in hopes of finding some inspiration for my own police force in the story. After that, I could suddenly see the characters better, if that makes any sense. The police in my story weren't really as incompetent as I had originally portrayed them. They had pasts and presents and futures. They had hopes and dreams, shortcomings and strengths.

It made me look at the Taskforce in a new light too. Those men weren't dumb. They weren't as clever as myself or Kid, but they were far from imbeciles. Takano was a wonderful father with three strong daughters and a wife whom he loved dearly. Morimoto excelled at crosswords and always had a witty comeback. Nikaidou played tennis. Hoshino was going to be a father in a few months. Adachi had lost his mother at a young age and had helped his father raise his seven younger siblings. Kato went to night school and was trying to be a doctor. Even Nakamori-keibu had his admirable points. His wife had left him nearly twenty years ago, and he'd been doing his best to raise a fine young woman ever since. He was imperfect, but Aoko was his world. He loved his daughter fiercely, and he was trying to make a better, safer world for her sake.

These men weren't the best police officers ever, but they each had their own areas of expertise. They all deserved to be respected. They deserved _my_ respect. Suddenly I felt ashamed for having looked down upon them for so long.

In the second month of my little writing project, Adelaide appeared.

I had been typing away into the wee hours of the morning one Friday night, sitting at my desk in my flannel pjs with my reading glasses sitting atop the bridge of my nose, when she snuck up behind me and tapped on my shoulder. She let out a highly amused snicker when I jumped.

I stopped, pausing to read the words on my screen: "Unbeknownst to Jon, there was another fighting the same evil as he: Adelaide. Only…the fiery, redheaded trickster went about the task in her own way. A bit of a modern-day Lupin, Adelaide was a thief."

I frowned. Since when did my detective story involve a thief? And a vigilante thief at that!

With a snort, I began to erase what I had written, but…I could feel her gaze on me: intense stargazer lily eyes. Adelaide wouldn't allow herself to be pushed aside now that she had made her presence known to me. Adelaide had been fighting against the same villain that Jon had, only Adelaide was doing it from the other side of the law. Adelaide was insistent and stubborn. She would not be denied.

And so Adelaide hijacked the plot.

My therapist's eyes widened as she read the part where Adelaide, scantily clad in an outfit reminiscent of Disney's Jasmine, invited herself into Jon's bedroom to announce her presence and challenge him directly.

"I like her," the doctor chuckled after she'd finished. "I think this is good, Saguru-kun. This is really good! You're making a lot of progress!"

I blinked at her, not believing it for a minute. "…You…think it's good?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "_YES_. This is wonderful! I want you to keep exploring this thief and her relationship with you—with Jon, I mean. Focus on the sexual tension between them and Jon's trouble comprehending her motives. See if you can't have them come to some kind of understanding."

"But she's a thief," I stated plainly. "They can't just…they can't be friends like that. They can't have any kind of relationship. It's not…there's decorum to be considered. This is improper. Jon could…Jon could get in a lot of trouble with the police."

"But he _likes_ her," my therapist stressed. "And she's not a bad person. Look at all of the people that Adelaide helps."

I sighed as I scratched my head. "Very well. I'll…I'll work with her. I'll see what I can do with her."

The following week, Jon and Adelaide met for dinner in a very fancy restaurant. He wore an expensive suit—the blue one with the striped shirt underneath it—and she…she wore practically nothing at all—a white, arguably see-through dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up to the top of her thigh.

More bizarre than the meeting between detective and thief itself was what happened afterwards. They were in the elevator together heading down to the lobby of the hotel where they had eaten dinner, and, out of nowhere, Jon's tie became loose and his shirt unbuttoned. His hands were tentatively exploring Adelaide's body as she stole the breath straight out of his lungs.

Someone hit the stop button, and the next thing I knew, my characters were all over each other in unacceptable states of undress, gasping and laughing and sighing and sucking and touching places they had no business touching!

I stared at the screen in horror, reading the words a third time and turning Valentine's Day red. I couldn't believe it. I had written smut. Me! Smut! And, worse yet, smut essentially between myself and the Kaitou Kid whom the characters had been modeled after.

I was tempted to erase it and pretend that it had never happened, but…I really wanted to talk about all this with my therapist. I wanted Katsuragi-sensei to tell me that, no, just because I had written a graphic scene between my fictional detective and thief did not mean that I secretly had a thing for the real thief in my life. I needed her to tell me that I did not subconsciously long to have sex with Kuroba Kaito in an elevator.

I took the manuscript to her that Monday and tried not to shrivel up and die of mortification as she read it over. I watched her face intently for the smallest micro-expression like a jaguar on the prowl. I tensed every time her eyes widened in surprise. I shuddered every time her mouth made a little "o" shape.

But she didn't seem disgusted by my work. It didn't look like she was going to laugh at me or mock me. She merely appeared to be surprised.

"Well." She finally broke the unbearable silence. "You certainly did what I told you and explored the sexual tension between the two."

"I didn't mean to—" I rushed to explain but just as quickly aborted my attempts, knowing that they were meaningless. I didn't need to defend myself to her.

I took a deep breath and asked, "Sensei, I…didn't mean to write all this. And so…I was just pondering whether or not I should be concerned about…if I might have any feelings that I myself am unaware of for…"

"Well," she started thoughtfully. "It certainly _could_ mean that. After all, like dreams, our writings are a look into our subconscious; that's why I encourage so many of my patients to write. It allows me to see where the real problems are, and it's truly beneficial for the patient as well. Writing serves as an outlet for all of the things they've been holding in. It allows them to process those painful experiences of the past and overcome them, become master of them by using those memories in their writings. It allows them to own their feelings and gain acceptance. That could very well be what's happening with you. It's feasible that you could have feelings for Kid."

I could feel the color draining from my face as my body suddenly went cold. My stomach began to churn, and the edges of my vision blurred.

Katsuragi-sensei, observing my visible distress, quickly continued. "But! And this really depends on how you feel about Jung and Freud and all them, but…there's a school of thought that says that if you dream about having sex with someone, it's really more about getting closer to them, not the actual physical act."

I blinked and replied wryly, "So…according to Freud, the fact that I like listening to jazz means that I want to have sex with my mother, but if I actually dream about having sex with my mother, that only means that I want to spend more time having biscuits and tea and talking about jazz music with her?"

Katsuragi smiled sheepishly. "Well…which would you rather it be? Do you want the fact that you wrote smut between yourself and Kid to mean that you want to make friends? Or do you want it to mean that you want to make love to him?"

I pursed my lips and admitted, "Point taken."

It was quiet for a bit, and then she inquired, "So…how's all this going to end between Jon and Adelaide?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you left the scene half-finished with them still in the elevator with their clothes falling off. Are they going to get a room at the hotel, or is one of them going to call it quits? How's it all going to end? If they do go through with it, I expect Jon will be feeling some remorse in the morning if he wakes up alone, but…if she stays and he gets to see her sleeping beside him peacefully…if they get to talk…it all depends on how you plan on making him fall in love with her."

"I-In _love_?" I choked.

"Yes, of course," she chuckled. "Regardless of your feelings for Kid, Jon _is_ in love with Adelaide…or at least infatuated with her. If they stop halfway, he's still going to think about making out in the elevator. It's going to drive him crazy until he finally admits that she's all that he thinks about and that he's in love with her. If they go through with it and sleep with each other, there are going to be consequences that will need to be addressed, so…at least if they do sleep together and she stays the night they'll get to talk the next morning. I think that's the most important thing for their relationship, for any relationship, coming to understand each other, I mean. And in their case, they're actually fighting the same evil, so…I think it would do them a world of good to understand."

I listened closely to her words, my mind spinning a little as I considered how on earth I was to pull it off. When she'd finished, the only real question I had was, "But…how am I to write a sex scene when I have no experience?"

Katsuragi-sensei shrugged. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't think you have much experience making out in elevators either, and you were able to write that scene just fine. My suggestion is to just imagine what it would be like. You know the mechanics, right? So use your imagination. What would you want it to be like? How would you want it to feel?"

At this point my face was completely magenta, and I could feel a distinct ringing in my ears that was telling me I was about to pass out from a fried brain.

"R-Right," I managed to squeak, giving her a bow of thanks as I scampered out of there.

That whole night I thought about it, seriously debating the pros and cons of every situation. I took out sheets and sheets of paper and scribbled all over them ideas that were painstakingly molded into outlines.

The covers on my bed remained cold and undisturbed that night, and by the break of day that next morning I had three separate roads that my story could take.

A) Jon came to his senses and put a stop to the funny business in the elevator only to later pine after Adelaide and lose sleep over the what ifs. Down that road lay depression and self-loathing that finally culminated in another torrid make-out session ending in copulation.

It didn't take me long to rule out Route A. It was too angsty and interfered with Jon's work. Plus…I really didn't want to write self-loathing. I had come from self-loathing, and there was not yet enough distance between us that I would feel comfortable revisiting those dark recesses of my mind.

I had made Jon out to be a plucky, optimistic young man possessing a past checkered with both good and bad experiences, times of joy and times of trouble. There were periods of hardship, but it had always been manageable for Jon. I didn't want Jon to be angsty.

Route B entailed the couple getting a room for the evening and having intercourse, but Adelaide slipped away in the night, leaving Jon to wake up alone.

I thought of how I would feel if, after I had given myself heart and body to Kuroba, he'd deserted me without any apology or explanation. I would likely feel used, alone, and depressed. I would doubt myself and what I had done. I'd blame myself, rebuke myself. I'd be ashamed, and I wouldn't be able to face him anymore.

I didn't want that for Jon, and so Route C won out. And I spent the next few days thinking about how in the world I was going to describe an act in which I had never partaken.

I did research. I read many a "For Dummies" book and watched trashy dramas. And then I tried to reconfigure what I had seen and read into something that would work for Adelaide and Jon.

I kept in mind Katsuragi-sensei's words about how I would want it to be, how I would want it to feel, and this…this was the hard, uncomfortable part. I had never put much thought to joining my body with another's. I'd never been delusional enough to think that anyone would ever want me, so…I had never bothered with thoughts of sex like other young men had. Growing up, I had always thought that my peers would go on to have relationships, girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, children (legitimate and not so much), so they were the ones that needed to concern themselves with such things. I would always be alone, so…why bother fantasizing about the unattainable?

But now…this was indescribably awkward, especially when I considered that my partner was essentially Kuroba. Now, whenever I looked at him, I saw visions of bed sheets, exposed flesh, and half-lidded indigo eyes. I heard phantom laughter, little mewls, and sighs of satisfaction.

That Thursday Kuroba was fliting about the classroom, leading the usual third period mop chase when a slight misstep sent him into an unplanned back handspring off of my desk. As he whirled by, I caught a whiff of vanilla, and now even his scent was haunting me as I poetically crafted our fictional first time.

It was especially awkward because I didn't know him very well, and what I did know of the persona he projected, I didn't like. And then there was the fact that I was fairly certain that I did not entertain those kinds of feelings for Kuroba. I was not interested in having _that_ kind of relationship. At least I didn't believe so.

That next Monday I turned in my sordid assignment and sat with my face buried in one of the throw pillows while she read it.

"Come on, Saguru-kun," she laughed softly. "It's okay. I'm your counselor. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"There's bloody well everything to be ashamed of!" I retorted, trying to refrain from going into the fetal position. "I've spent the past week obsessing over sleeping with the enemy! I can't even look at him without turning cerise, and it's…it's horrible, that's what it is. It's horrible, and it's indecent."

"This is actually pretty good for someone who's never had sex before," she confided, chuckling as I dropped the pillow and gaped at her. "Seriously, Saguru-kun. You're a good writer. You should publish this once it's finished, but, for now, how about posting it online on a writer's forum or something?"

I continued to stare, trying to get my thoughts together. After a straight minute, all I could come up with was a befuddled, "What?"

She smiled that encouraging, cheerleader smile and replied, "I know a good site, if you're interested. I'll write it down for you, but I think it would be good if you got some feedback from others."

She took a clean sheet of paper, scribbled something, and handed it to me. "This week I want you to go back through what you've written and edit it so that it's polished and ready to be posted. That will give you more time to think about the morning after scene too. If you feel up to it, go ahead and post the first chapter, and then we can talk about the comments you get next week. How does that sound?"

I chewed on my lip and thought about it. "Terrifying. What if they don't like it?"

"Saguru-kun, it's good. Most people are going to like it. People are very interested in stories about murder and intrigue. You've got a good plot, and the characters have become very realistic and fleshed out. Jon is sympathetic and engaging. Adelaide is simply a gem. You've put a lot of thought and effort into this, Saguru-kun, and they'll be able to tell.

"Most people on the site leave pretty general comments saying that they enjoyed the chapter and are excited for the next one. They'll tell you that you did a good job, and I think that that'll be good for you, Saguru-kun. The only people that leave negative reviews are the ones that are jealous of your ability, so keep that in mind, if you do get any negative comments."

"You're sure about this?" I wasn't so certain. This sounded terrible.

"Oh, positive," she laughed. "This will be good for you. You might get some comments with some constructive criticism, but you should take that as a compliment. Someone thought highly enough of your work that they took the time, time out of their lives, their busy schedules, to read your story thoroughly and give you their honest opinions. You know how highly people value their time, Saguru-kun, so if you do get some constructive criticism, you should be glad."

"…Okay," I finally replied.

"Okay?" She smiled kindly, almost lovingly, like how I imagined a mother might look at her child. My mother had never looked at me like that. Baaya had. Good, old Baaya. It was a smile that told me Katsuragi-sensei wanted me to succeed. More than that, it told me that she believed in me.

"Okay," I repeated a little more strongly this time, starting to think that maybe this would be good after all.

…

That night I poked around on the site she had given me, looking at other people's stories and the comments they had received. It seemed to be just as Katsuragi-sensei had said. The majority of the comments were about how the readers had liked the story or the characters or a certain line and what not. There were very few criticisms or negative reviews, and when constructive criticism _was_ given, it was very respectful and honest. It wasn't malicious in the least bit, and it did a good job of balancing the comments about what could have been better with praise of what had been good and enjoyable.

Fingers trembling with excitement as much as apprehension, I made an account with "SearchingSherrinford" as my penname. Thus christened, I went back and left some reviews on the stories I had read and really enjoyed. I refrained from commenting on grammar, usage, and (in the handful of detective/police stories I had read) the inaccurate portrayals of crime scene procedure. I figured that I'd save that for the site's senior members and people who could handle constructive criticism themselves. I didn't want to leave any comments that I myself would not want to receive, so I just started off with compliments and praise for the time being.

In my exploration, I came across one author who, frankly, dazzled me: Pierrot, The Fool's Mask. He (for I am assuming it was a he) mostly did poetry which, and I told him so, really wasn't my usual cup of tea, but his wording and the imagery, the feelings that his work conjured up in me were just…really quite indescribable. He painted clear pictures for me of pain and suffering, the difficulty of not being understood, of showing the world a mask and having it accepted without a second thought about who "you" really are. He was quite talented, very clever, and I told him so…maybe a little too enthusiastically, but…

There was this one poem that really hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. It was one of his earlier works and, okay, maybe not one of his most artful or evocative, but I could relate. I could feel it because I _had_ felt it before. The poem was entitled "Fake".

_**F**_orever fooled, the world sees only what I wish:

_**A**_smiling face, a cheerful disposition, mischief and magic.

_**K**_nowing nothing of what's really on the inside, they accept "me".

_**E**_ven my "friends" are deceived, but reality glowers at me from the mirror, screaming:

_**!**_

It was carefully handwritten in masterful calligraphy reminiscent of medieval monks in their hermitages painstakingly making illuminated copies of the Bible…. And at the same time, they were much like the doodles of young maidens in love, curlicue-ing their crush's name on the pages of their notebooks where chemistry notes were supposed to go. Regardless, it was gorgeous and detailed. The i's were dotted fancifully with stars and smiley faces as befitting while "mischief" seemed to smirk playfully and the word "magic" was adorned with enchanting sparkles. But then the embellishments turned somber with sad faces and tears and wilting flowers. Things became almost sinister as the "o" in "glowers" did indeed glower like the devil himself staring you down from the pits of Hell. Somehow he got "screaming" to resemble the iconic Scream, leaving the reader…leaving _me_ feeling chilled.

I wondered at the use of the colon and that lone exclamation point for a while until it dawned on me to look at the first letter of each line, larger and more elaborate than the rest that followed. Those four letters spelled out a gutting self-condemnation.

And I felt it.

FAKE!

I had felt it. The Hakuba Saguru that society saw…I looked at him in the mirror and denounced him just as Pierrot, The Fool's Mask had described in the poem. I was a faker too. Or…at least I had been. Kid had done much to humble me, to take me down a notch in society's eyes. Secretly, I thanked him for that. It had been freeing to be unmasked.

I left Pierrot a review, telling him how moving it had been for me to read his work, how I could really relate. I expressed my appreciation for his artistry with the mixture of literary and visual art, and I thanked him earnestly for sharing something so personal. I let him know that it had given me the courage to publish my own work.

I didn't think about it much after I shut my computer down for the night. The next day I spent class time going over chapter one, fine-tuning it so that it might be ready for the light of day by that evening, but Kuroba and Aoko-kun got into a heated argument (the same one as always about Kid and Nakamori-keibu) during Calculous, and my focus was disturbed as my desk was upset. The perils of sitting directly behind the class clown.

Class stopped as Aoko-kun started screaming at the top of her lungs, tears coming to her eyes as she shrieked at Kuroba, calling him a traitor and all manner of awful things. She yelled about how Kid kept her father away and how horrible it had been growing up and how bad it was now having her dad gone when her mother had already left them, how alone she felt and how much she hated Kid for ruining her family.

And suddenly Kuroba wasn't laughing or smiling or jesting anymore. He looked rather floored, honestly. And I would be too if the girl I fancied were literally screaming all of those horrible things at me.

I tried not to look at Kuroba in order to give him some privacy. How absolutely gutted he must have felt having his alter ego accused of destroying his beloved's happiness.

…

When I got home that night, before continuing my editing venture, I got on the site to check to see if Pierrot had posted anything new. Before I got too terribly far, I noticed that I had a PM. From Pierrot.

My heart leapt. It was a reply to my review! But… What if he didn't think I had been sincere?! What if he hadn't liked what I'd said?! What if I sounded like a nerd gushing over him like that?! It had been almost a year since he'd written that poem; what if he was over those feelings by now?! What if he looked back at his early writings and shook his head, rolling his eyes at his naivety and lack of skill?! What if he brushed off my praise?!

"_And what if he'd just written to say thank you?"_ my mind reasoned with me.

Taking a deep, slow inhale, I clicked on the PM. It took me a moment to gather the courage to read it, but when I did…I was so, so glad that I had sent him that review.

"Hey there, Searching!" it started off warmly. I could almost hear the friendly chuckle to his voice. "Or do you prefer Sherry? Anyway, I'm Mask. Nice to meet you. I just wanted to say thanks for taking a minute to read my work. Seriously, I'm really grateful, you spending time you could have been, I don't know, curing cancer or something, reading my poem. I'm really glad you liked it so much.

"I really do want to thank you. I kind of had a sucky day, and reading your comments really brightened it up. I still feel like a fake sometimes…a lot, actually, but it's good to know I'm not the only one out there, so thanks right back atcha for your honesty.

"Best of luck to you in your own writing. You expressed yourself very well in your review, and I liked the way you phrased things. Your word choice is really good, so I'm excited to see what kind of surprises your work has in store. What genre do you write? Let me guess…detective fiction? Judging by your handle, anyway.

"I'm more of a Leblanc lover than a Doyle devotee, honestly, but I have to admit that I love a good detective story. Kudo-sensei is pretty good, and recently I've become enamored of Tantei Red Jacket. I adored the Kendaichi Casefiles when I was younger, and Akechi and Nijuumensou have always been favorites, but… Haha. Sorry. Getting off topic. ^.^;

"But, hey. Seriously, good luck to you. I'll keep an eye out for your work. Thanks again!

-K. (aka: Mask)"

I was positively elated. Not only had an author that I admired encouraged me, but he was also a fan of detective stories. He had pretty good taste too. Even though I wasn't a huge fan of the Modern Day Lupin, I did enjoy Maurice Leblanc's work. His writing was so clever, and his characters were begrudgingly likeable.

I was terribly excited to get to know "Mask" better. I typed out an enthusiastic reply, thanking him profusely for his kind words and assuring him that it was no trouble taking the time out to read his work and leave my comments. He really was talented, and I found his style intriguing, enchanting.

I told him that, yes, I was a mystery writer, but my present work was one of suspense and drama…and a bit of a budding romance between my detective and a vigilante thief.

And then I continued the conversation he had started about detectives and thieves.

I was very much looking forward to further discussions with my new prospective friend. It would mean a lot to me to have someone with whom I could have conversations of note, and I desperately longed for someone with whom I could share the real me.

…

By the by, Mask _had_ posted a new poem, and it was entitled "Apocalypse".

With a word from _**her**_,

_m_

_y_

_w_

_o_

_r_

_l_

_d_

EXPLODES.

Someone had had a fight with their girlfriend.

My mind immediately flashed to the scene between Kuroba and Aoko-kun in class today, but I quickly shook it off. It was impossible. There was no way. Kuroba wasn't a poet…but _Kid_ was, and Kid was Kuroba was…no. Coincidence. Obsession with target. Overthinking. Bad Saguru.

…But, again, this poem spoke galaxies into existence with its powerful visual nature. "Her", whoever she was, was the goddess of Mask's religion. You could see how he worshiped her in the little hearts, roses, and stars surrounding the pronoun.

The words, "my world" tumbled down the page like Alice down the rabbit hole. You could hear the whoosh of the wind as they fell like a piano out of a window or an anvil in the old cartoons. Lines depicting rushing air were drawn next to the letters.

Bringing home the point and all the emotions that came with it, the "o" in "world" was replaced by a heart cracked down the middle into two, gut-wrenching pieces.

You could see the impact of "EXPLODES", the dent it had made when it hit the ground like an atom bomb and the mushroom cloud left in its wake.

Apocalypse indeed.

…

Mikau: Well, there's the first half, and the second should be out next weekend. I want to sincerely thank you for reading. As you can see, this time the subject is a little more…personal, close to home. Anyway, it'd mean a lot to me if you could send in some feedback if you have time. Thank you so much for your support and encouragement!


	2. Mask

Mikau: Hello, hello! Thank you for coming back for chapter two! I'm so utterly thrilled that you guys liked chapter one! Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers: Guest, 908-03, Orange04, Chaoshift, LittleFan, Guest (*Blushes* Thank you so much!), FreeWeirdGal, Miss Emotion, and Shara Raizel! Like I said before, this one is a lot more personal, so it meant so much to me, you guys reassuring me that my feelings were valid and my writing wasn't horrible, so thank you again. This week I'm updating Falling in Love Literally and Just Passing Through. I've also got a new one called Unknown Isolation. It's kind of like this one with the HakuKai friendship and being in first person, but…in it I'm working really hard on description and setting. I think it's a fun read, a little different, and a lot more…fantastic/mystical maybe? Anyway. Give it a look if you like Hakuba and have some time. It's my entry for Poirot Café's competition "Alone". And now on with the show!

Disclaimer: If I owned this, I'd have wider readership and probably wouldn't have the guts to be this brutally honest.

…

Chapter Two: Mask

The following day, Wednesday, as soon as I got home from school, I sat down at my computer and published the first chapter.

And then I shut down the computer and forced myself to go for a brisk, March walk. A long one that would not allow me to check obsessively for reviews for at least another hour and a half.

I got lucky (?) and ran into a theft at one of the banks I passed, and so I did not return home until eight o'clock that evening. Baaya scolded me for failing to call home about being late for dinner, but then I dashed up to my room like a man possessed and booted up my computer, not so silently urging it on, pleading sweetly for it to display the page faster.

Three reviews. THREE reviews! I had three whole reviews!

I got up and did an embarrassing little dance that would have sent me packing to live in Antarctica with the penguins where no one would be able to find me should aforementioned dance ever get recorded and leaked to the general public.

But I was so happy! I hadn't even dared to hope that anyone would actually read my work, let alone review it! At worst, I feared that I'd receive all negative comments telling me that my work was crap and I needed to give up.

But this…THIS! Three reviews! I was on fire! And they were good reviews too. Two of them were the kind that Katsuragi-sensei had told me about. They said that they really liked where this was going, that they enjoyed the first chapter and were looking forward to chapter two.

The third review was from Mask.

I could feel my heart fluttering and all the saliva in my mouth drying up.

Oh, God. What if he hated it?! What if he laughed at me?! What if he turned up his nose and told me that I'd never make it as a writer?!

And then that blessed, reasonable part of my mind reminded me that I had never intended to become a writer in the first place. I was doing this at the behest of my therapist because she thought it would help me understand my feelings and function better in society. And Mask had seemed like a genuinely nice guy. He wouldn't purposefully say mean things to me. If he didn't like my work, he would be tactful at the very least. He had been so encouraging before. If he didn't have anything nice to say, perhaps his review would just read, "Hey, keep up the good work! Keep trying, and don't give up. You've got potential!"

Whatever he had to say, I could safely bet that it wouldn't be the confidence-shaking bomb that I feared. As always, I was simply worrying too much.

I scrolled down and read the review.

"Hey, Searching! Glad to see you posted! I can tell that you're still growing into your style as a writer, but this is seriously good! I love Jon, and the cops all are so thought out and well developed. I like that you really took your time with even the side characters. They're all very human, easy to relate to. Good job, man!

"I especially like Jon's investigations. Your descriptions of the crime scenes are spot on! You've either really done your research or you've had some experience with police work yourself. What? Fledgling cop? Or maybe you're like me and know someone. My uncle's an officer. Anyway, I really appreciated your attention to detail, and the mysteries you've written, Jon's deductions. They're all wicked awesome, super original. You really do have some talent.

"Well, now that I've gushed about how much I loved it and stroked your ego, I should probably offer some kind of useful advice. I mean, it doesn't help you improve at all if I just tell you that you're fabulous. I know you told me that you've been working on this for a while, so you've probably improved on your own since you first wrote this, so what I'm gonna say is probably irrelevant, but one thing I think you could do is use your other four senses more.

"What I mean is that you're telling me all about what Jon sees, what Jon does, and it's great. Your descriptions are wonderful, but what does Jon smell? What does he hear? Taste? Feel? Tell me about the sickening metallic scent of blood, the repugnant smell of sulfur in the air. Help me to hear the rain pounding on the windows like a lover begging to be taken back. Let me hear the last sputter of the engine as it dies. Use that big vocabulary of yours to make me taste the ash and the smoke on my tongue as the building burns to the ground around Jon. Please insert a scene where Jon eats pastries or something so that I can taste the rich flavors of dark chocolate blending with hints of caramel. Let me feel the rough edges of seashells mixed in with the granules of sand between my toes. Let me feel the cozy warmth of a roaring bonfire on a crisp night in late fall. Draw me further into Jon's world by using all of my senses.

"And kindly disregard everything I've just said if you've already started doing that. Good luck in the future! I look forward to reading chapter two real soon! –K. (aka: Mask)"

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so happy. A glowing review! And even his constructive criticism was absolutely wonderful! I could really tell that he valued the talent that I possessed and sincerely wanted me to improve for my own sake.

It truly meant a lot to me.

I replied to his review, thanking him earnestly and asked if he had any additional pointers on how I might tap into and utilize my other four senses. He got back to me within the hour, and we had a thrilling discussion well past eleven o'clock that night.

…

After that night, I only got two more reviews total. And not even in the same day. It was a little…disheartening, I'll admit, after getting three in the first few hours, but I consoled myself by rereading my previous reviews and focusing on getting chapter two ready to go.

I still refreshed the page obsessively for a day or two after that, but…well, no dice. I learned to be okay with that, though. I had still gotten five good reviews on the first chapter of my first work of fiction ever, so I reasoned that that was something to be proud of…after Mask had brought that fact to my attention.

Really, Mask was indispensable to me during that first week. I would have had a nervous breakdown without him there to comfort and reassure me. I was really grateful for his presence.

And then came the check in with Katsuragi-sensei on Monday.

It went well, we went over my reviews and talked about the publishing process, my new friendship with Mask, and how things were going communicating with some of the other writers on the site as well.

Only something was slightly off. She reacted when she saw Mask's name. She didn't say anything or make any other further indication that she was familiar with him, but…that slight crinkling of her brow followed by the widening of her eyes, the very minute stretch of her lips and the way her eyes remained on the words "Pierrot, The Fool's Mask" for a few seconds longer than it should have taken her to read them were all very telling. To a detective, at least. I had two theories.

1) Katsuragi-sensei was on the site herself and had had interactions with Mask before.

2) Katsuragi-sensei seemed to favor having her patients express themselves through writing. She had referred me, a patient, to this site after having had me write. Who was to say that she hadn't done the same for other patients? Judging by the content of Mask's poems, he was probably seeing or needed to see a therapist. Mask was (or had been), therefore, another one of Sensei's patients.

There was, of course, the third option where Mask's was just a name she had come across before while doing the same exercise she was doing with me with other patients.

And then there was door number four where she just found the name particularly interesting and/or puzzling. It _was_ an interesting name, and it was written out in English as my own handle was, so…

But I was clinging to my second theory. Mask was Katsuragi-sensei's patient too.

I imagined running into him in the waiting room one day (even though I never ran into anyone in the waiting room…as I was beginning to think was probably by design due to confidentiality issues).

I thought about casually alluding to it in our chats on occasion, but I never did bring it up. I was afraid that he'd deny it or clam up if I did mention counseling. Not everyone was so open-minded about seeking professional help, and Mask probably didn't want anyone else to know that he was in counseling any more than I did.

So I remained silent, but our chats continued daily, and Mask helped me greatly in polishing my already written chapters.

Chapter two did very well, picking up an additional two reviews from last time, and chapter three where Adelaide made her first appearance was a smash hit.

"I love her," Mask reported. "I. LOVE. Her! Searching, she's magnificent and fiery and hilarious and just such a perfect match for our little Jonny! I love her!"

He went on about Adelaide for a while and then got around to remarking on the rest of the chapter, but at the end of his review, Mask came back to Adelaide.

"I don't know. I just…she's…I feel like she's me. A little more sassy, a little more daring and sure of herself, but… It's like she gets me. Or maybe _I_ get _her_? I can't really describe it well, but I just feel this really strong connection with her, Searching. Good job. I'll say it again: good job. I can always sympathize with your characters pretty well, but this is the first time I've truly identified with one. It's like she pulls thoughts right out of my head and steals the clever lines right off my lips. Good job, Searching. I'm soooo stoked for next chapter."

At that moment I didn't stop to puzzle over why my friend felt so in touch with my phantom thief; I simply rejoiced in the fact that he did. It was a huge accomplishment for me.

Chapter three was when I first started feeling like a real writer.

…

Things went on like that for another week or two, and I kept working on reworking the old chapters. I had about a dozen of them from my previous months of writing, and I'd even written a couple later scenes, some as the result of throwing ideas around and just goofing off with Mask. I had a lot of good ideas for Jon and Adelaide working together once they became a more or less official couple, but…the hard part was getting them to that point.

I still hadn't really finalized the morning after scene, despite having been working on it for at least a month and a half now. And I was running out of buffer chapters between where my readers were and what I had written. All of the great scenes I had that came later on in the story weren't going to help me at all until I had that all-important morning after scene written, but…I still didn't know what to do about it.

I didn't know Adelaide's secret, so I couldn't tell it to Jon. I couldn't make him understand without the secret of why Adelaide was a thief in the first place, so I couldn't have them move on.

It was completely dispiriting. I felt like such a failure as an author. I didn't even understand my own character.

"Spend some time with her," Mask suggested when I explained my problem. "Do some writing exercises or something, write her backstory. Even if you just jot down everything you know about her on a piece of paper; that should be helpful, right? You're an amateur detective, right, Searching? Pretend she's a suspect. Write down what you know about her and try to fill in all of the blanks."

I did as he said, trying to piece together "Adelaide" over the next week. I checked in with Mask daily about my small epiphanies, and we celebrated my minor revelations together.

Katsuragi-sensei was also a valuable resource in helping me to psychoanalyze Adelaide.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but…stalking Kuroba a little was also helpful. I thoroughly researched him like I hadn't done in months, almost a year ago when I'd first come and learned his true identity. Or rather, his secret identity. Only, this time, instead of studying Kuroba as I would my prey, I looked upon him as a prospective friend or lover. I took the time to learn about his past from the few that had any clue about it. I took a closer look at his family history and learned some very disturbing facts about his parents. There was death, lots of illegal activities, and, most surprisingly, frailty and mental instability.

I took it upon myself to find out Kuroba's interests and hobbies, likes and dislikes, aspirations and fears.

At the end of that week, I felt like I truly _knew_ Kuroba…but…that was more due to the fact that on Friday when I was following him to the convenience store after school (at a distance and looking distinctly like a creeper as I hid behind things like telephone poles and post boxes), something fell out of a book bag pocket that Kuroba had accidentally left unzipped.

It was a single sheet of paper that came dancing on the breeze to rest at my feet. On that sheet in what was now unmistakably familiar handwriting were the illuminated Bible, school girl curlicue, wonderfully crafted calligraphy letters of Mask's poetry.

The piece of paper read:

My black wings dance on the back of the night, dripping blood.

Run. Get away before these dark feathers stain you.

I don't want you to become tainted.

It bore all the customary marks of Mask's work: the embellishments giving "wings" its own set of wings and making "dance" look like it was indeed twirling about gaily. "Night" twinkled with stars, and "blood" did drip. "Feathers" was molting like a fallen angel, sadly shedding, and "stain" looked like it would never come out. "You" was the same as "her" from his other poems. It was the sainted, beloved, worshipped "she" that was his idol…now known to me as Nakamori Aoko. "Tainted" was an insidious smear on the page.

This was undeniably my dear friend Mask's masterful handiwork…and Kuroba Kaito was undeniably my dear friend Mask.

I went home after that, not sure what to think about…anything really.

Kuroba was Mask, but…now I was beginning to understand Mask's poems better. The Kuroba that I knew was not his true self but a mask that he wore, a contrived character. My friend Mask was closer to the real thing. Behind the safety of anonymity, Kuroba had let his true colors show in Mask.

And Mask was my friend. Therefore, so Kuroba could be too.

Now that I had stalked the man, striven to understand him, I saw him more clearly. I had a certain sympathy for Kuroba because Kuroba was a good man. He had been through so much in his personal life, and he was still suffering what with his crusade as Kid impacting his relationship with his beloved. There had to be a good reason as to why he stole only to return the loot.

Only I didn't understand. I still had no idea of his motives. I knew he was searching, and I could gather that this had something to do with his deceased father, most likely the original Kid, but…

"I still don't get it," I admitted to Mask two days later. "I've come to know Adelaide so well since I started doing all this research and these writing exercises, but I still can't for the life of me figure out why on earth she steals. She's a good person. She has to have a good reason, but I just…I feel like a lousy detective, Mask. I can't put the pieces together. I don't understand."

It took him a minute to reply, and when he did, the text was hesitant.

"Well maybe…maybe it has something to do with someone close to her? Maybe the Big Bad that they're pursuing killed or caused the death of her mom or her sister or something?"

I blinked at my screen.

They'd killed his father. Yes! That was it! They'd killed his father! Those men in the trench-coats that fired at Kid had killed the first one!

"Yes, that's very good. That would make sense why Adelaide would be after these guys. Revenge…or rather…probably a stronger motivator would be to ensure that no one else lost a parent or a sibling to these guys like she had. After all, Adelaide isn't the type of bloodthirsty person that would be out for revenge. She's a protector. She may do quote, unquote 'bad' things, but she's not a bad person, right?"

"Exactly!" Mask quickly responded, and I could almost hear the joy of being understood in Kuroba's voice.

"…But…what does that have to do with the stealing? I mean…what does the stealing have to do with the death of her family member?" I pushed my luck in an attempt to finally get it, the piece of the puzzle that had alluded me for so long.

"Well, maybe it's that she's trying to draw out the person that killed her loved one, trying to make such a nuisance of herself that the Big Bad him- or her- self has to come and deal with Adelaide. Maybe she wants to confront and take down the person that stole her family from her and ensure that it doesn't happen to anyone else.

"Maybe the stealing is because there's something out there that the Big Bad is looking for, something he or she is planning on using for unspeakable evil or something. Adelaide is trying to get it first so that it can't be used for evil. What do you think?"

I could almost see Kuroba holding his breath on the other side of the screen.

"I think those are worthy ideas," I replied. "Thank you so much for sharing them with me. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that."

And thus I was finally able to complete the morning after scene and continue on with my writing.

I showed the whole thing to Mask first, as he had become my unofficial beta reader, and he had cooed over it, praising my fictional interpretation of what he had confided in me.

It felt so good to have his stamp of approval. It meant so much to me.

And then he tentatively asked, "Can I read the H scene? I mean you've mentioned stuff about it with the dinner and the elevator and stuff, but…can I read it? Or do I have to wait like everyone else? :( C'mon, we're buddies, right? Pretty please?"

I was very hesitant at first, but with his begging, I eventually broke down and agreed.

I was actually rather glad that I had after he read it and gushed over it as was his custom with my work. His acceptance of it, likely himself seeing the similarity between Jon and Adelaide and Hakuba and Kid, made me feel less awkward about it.

"That was the best sex scene I have ever read! No, seriously, Searching! That was good! It was so tasteful, but at the same time it was absolutely delicious! Oh my God! I could taste it and feel it and I want my first time to be like that! That was wonderful! The sensory details were just fabulous, and, again, it was so tasteful and innocent, really pure. Their feelings for each other really came across, like, you could see the tremendous amount of respect Jon has for her, and the affection Adelaide has for Jon was just so evident in the way she smiled at him and trailed her fingers over his skin. Gosh you're amazing! I could never write anything like that! You said that you were embarrassed by it because you thought it was indecent, but, Searching, that wasn't smut. What you wrote was poetry, and it was _beautiful_."

After that we talked often of Jon and Adelaide's budding romance. We were like two old hens plotting our children's marriage, and it was delightfully fun. We talked of walks in the park, days at the amusement park, movie dates spent cuddling on Jon's couch, and secret flirtations at work as he chased her across London.

We discussed their clandestine meetings to thwart the Big Bad's plots and their plans to team up and take their nemesis down. Those were actually the most telling conversations that I had with Kuroba under the guise of Mask. The things he suggested were really informative as far as Kid's fight against his own Big Bad. Slowly I was becoming more sympathetic to Kid's cause.

If he were fighting to protect people from some unknown threat, if he were searching for some dangerous item in order to destroy it before it could be used for evil…well, he was doing Tokyo a world more good than I. And he was doing it all without recognition or thanks. He was protecting us all under the label of "criminal".

I couldn't help but admire him. As he sat in front of me in History class, I was in awe of his strength and tenacity. Kuroba Kaito really was something else.

And then…Mask published the poem, the very same poem that I had chanced to obtain when it escaped from Kuroba's backpack, and my suspicions were confirmed, all doubts gone.

But by that point, most of the thinking and considering had been done. I already had my answer.

…

It was about three months into our acquaintance, several weeks after I had by chance learned Mask's true identity, that I asked him, "Do you think we'd be friends in real life too?"

To which he automatically answered, "Of course. We're buddies, Searching. You're awesome. We'd definitely be friends in real life. Why? You wanna meet for coffee sometime? Though, you'd have tea and I'd have hot chocolate, but…"

"I don't think you'd like me if you knew who I really was," I remarked.

I could almost hear him snorting at me. "Come on. I _know_ who you really are. Not your name or your face or anything, but I know the important things about you just like you know the important things about me. I've been talking to you every day for the past three months. Even if that were all an act you've been putting on (which it's not. I can tell, by the way. I'm very good at reading people), I've read you work. I've read your work, so I know you.

"Writers bare their souls to their readers. You've shown me how your mind works, what's in your heart with each word you chose. I've come to know the real you through Jon and Adelaide and the police. I know you, Searching, and you're awesome. It's just like how you know the real me through my poetry. I've held my still-beating heart out to you through all of those personal experiences I've shared, and you looked at it, studied it, and got to know me through it.

"Writers are some of the most emotionally vulnerable people out there. They invite you into their parlors and let you look at their diaries. They tell you about their first loves, their failures, their fears, all their embarrassing secrets, all of their hidden desires.

"You've read my poetry, and I've read your story. I know you, and I'd be your friend in real life _because_ I know you.

"…Haha. So yeah. Sorry. Poet. You know. I tend to get a little dramatic and…well, overly poetic sometimes, but I gather that you don't really mind that about me, so I'll just end my little rant there, 'kay? ^.^"

I couldn't help but smile at his words as I thought, _"Kuroba Kaito, you are a beautiful human being."_

I responded, "I think you're absolutely right. I've been more truthful as 'Searching' than I think I ever have been with another human being before. The question is if I can remain this honest in the face to face setting. And no, I rather like that about you. You've got a way with words that just knocks me off of my feet, and I find it extraordinary. Very well. I'll hold you to your word if we ever do meet in real life."

…

I waited a week. In actuality, I hesitated a week. I just couldn't get up the courage to confront Kuroba about my true identity. What if he completely rejected me?! What if—!? What if he smiled and replied, "Took ya long enough. Come over to my house after school today. There's this awesome new poem I want to show you, and then we can talk about Jon and Adelaide's wedding!"?

So after school that Friday I went up to Kuroba as he was packing his things, and I held out the poem that I had carefully, reverently preserved up until that point.

"S-Sorry," I apologized to his shoes. "I… This fell out of your bag a while ago, and I picked it up. I was going to give it back to you, but I read it and I…I didn't know what to say to you, so I…" I chanced a glance up at his face.

He had taken the poem in shaking hands and was now looking down at it, then up at me, then back down in confusion and a bit of alarm.

"But I've always admired your work, so…and this piece is no exception, so…" I bit my lip, not knowing what else to say. "…I wasn't sure if you'd still want to get coffee, but…" And then I bit my tongue as his eyes widened and then narrowed.

His mouth opened and closed, but he didn't say anything.

And then I lost my nerve and bolted. "I hope you have a nice weekend," was practically flung over my shoulder as I speed walked away.

Mask wasn't on all weekend, and I didn't try to PM him. No word from Kuroba either. Not that I was expecting anything.

It was during second period Monday morning, English, that Kuroba turned around and placed an index card-sized piece of paper on my desk. After he had deposited the card, he faced front once more without so much as a word or any other kind of acknowledgement that he had interacted with me.

I picked it up and read:

Black and White

Not irreconcilable opposites. Merely bookends,

Counting on each other for support.

"Black" was dressed up like Kid with a cape, top hat, and monocle while "White" wore the deerstalker and inverness of my idol. There was even a little magnifying glass at the end by the e.

At the bottom of the card in Kuroba's own messy dove scratch was written, "About coffee…are you paying? 'Cause I'm broke. As you know, my profession isn't very lucrative. ^.^;"

I smiled and pulled out a scrap of paper, writing down my reply. "My treat of course, but in return can we promise to talk just as honestly face to face as we do online?"

Kaito read my response and gave an amused snort. He turned around and whispered in English, "I am the very face of honesty and the soul of discretion."

I rolled my eyes following suit and continuing in English. "With the devil's smile and his very own silver tongue."

He shrugged and laughed softly. "Can't be helped. I thought you liked my way with words."

I returned his smile. "Honestly? I really do."

"Then I'll try to be as honest as possible with you in the future as well." He made a little motion of crossing his heart.

"Even about your vigilante efforts?" I held my breath.

"Bi-Vigilanchi?" he stumbled over the new word.

"Vigilante," I repeated once more in English and then the Japanese equivalent: "Jikeidanin."

His eyes widened at the word I had used so many times when referring to Adelaide. And then he laughed softly once more.

Our instructor's patience at our whispering mid-lecture ran out at that point, and she sternly barked, "Hakuba-kun, Kuroba-kun. Face the front and pay attention."

Never one to challenge authority, I lowered my head and clammed up with a timid, "Please excuse me."

Kuroba, however, whined in English, "But, Sensei, Hakuba's teaching me all sorts of new words like vigilante, phantasmagoria, thanatopsis, and legerdemain!"

Sensei's eyes widened, and she did some very skilled fish imitations before she finally replied, "Well…just keep it down, okay? The other students are trying to listen."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Kaito cheered with a chipper salute.

I looked at him in amazement. "You know words like 'thanatopsis', but you don't know 'vigilante'?"

Kuroba shrugged. "I'm a poet and a magician. Of course I know words like that. I'm sorry that you find my humble lexicon to be deficient in English."

I stared at him for a bit.

"What?" he chuckled.

I shook my head and admitted, "Oh, I was just wondering about your alter ego's poor pronunciation of 'Ladies and Gentlemen'."

He shrugged once more, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, "_That's_ the act."

"Astounding," I sighed. "…So…later, frank conversations about your vigilante efforts?"

"In exchange for the right to give Adel-chan away at her wedding to Jon. I feel like she's my daughter, after all," Kuroba replied most seriously.

I laughed. "Oh is that all?"

"And the right to help name the babies," he added.

I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't thought about children. Let alone in English in the middle of class with Kuroba. It felt like I was being tasked to name my firstborn right then and there. I blinked. "D-Did Adelaide want children?"

"Of course she wants children!" Kuroba exclaimed as quietly as he could to keep from interrupting the lecture. "Dozens of them! Doesn't Jon?"

I thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "I believe he does. In a few years. If it's with Adelaide. But…maybe start off with one or two."

"Fine, but I want you to know that you're zero percent fun," Kuroba grumbled.

I replied with a shrug, thinking how surreal this all was.

The man whom I had thought to be my antithesis for so long had turned into my best friend, and he was everything that I had wanted in a companion.

Through this whole experience, I had learned so much about myself, learned who I was and how to share that "me" with others. I'd learned to be accepted and to accept. My way of thinking had changed, and I could now see things from other people's perspectives. Through writing, I had learned to widen my worldview. There was no difference between main and minor characters in fiction as well as real life. All had stories, feelings, fears, and dreams.

I found myself not needing to ask "Why?" so much anymore because I finally understood. The people around me were no longer a total mystery, and that made it easier on me. I felt more secure, both in who I was and around other people. I was no longer grasping at straws in social interactions because I had practiced many times in my stories.

Maybe there was something to this writing thing after all. It had given me confidence and a sense of self. It'd brought me friends and, more than anything, allowed me to process and work through my toughest problems. By struggling through my depression, my self-loathing, and my myriad tremendous doubts on paper, I was able to deal with them when they cropped back up in my real life.

It was therapeutic, healing to get all of those feelings down and then hold them out there for people to see. Like Kuroba had said, "Here's my still-beating heart." To which I can add, "This is me: ugly and broken, imperfect and yet…still glorious—a mess of true to life humanity…. What do you think?"

It was freeing to finally take off the masks and truly be seen.

The

End

…

Mikau: *Blushes* So what did you think? No, honestly. Part of me is panicking, screaming, "I can't believe you wrote all that down and now you're showing it to people! What are you doing?!" and then the other half is like, "You know, it feels really good to write that down and get it off my chest. I should spill my guts to people and be brutally honest more often." So yeah. I really hope you liked it, and I'd appreciate you taking a sec to jot down some thoughts, even if it's just to say "It didn't suck". Thanks so much, guys! It really means a lot to me! See you again soon!


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